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dangerous passsion ? I mean ol
course, those who are capable of
feeling it, for the others are not
worth taking into account. Only
look around you, and !I am sure
vour ladyship will see nothing but
lovers.”
“Lover ! no, pardon me my lord :
only men of gallantry.”
“You are unjust, tny lady ; 3 r ou,
of all others, ought to know what
real love is: for what other hut a
real attachment could you inspire ?”
In saying which his eyes rested on
me in the softest and most expres
sive manner.
“Do not on that account,” he
continued, “take me for an absolute
Amadis ; I am far from speaking by
experience, for I have never yet
been in love—really and truly in
love. I have often admired a lady,
taken pleasure in her conversation
and society, felt even a passing \uis
sion, but no deeper sensation. And
yet I look with the most fervent
anxiety to the moment when I am to
meet the angel that is to brighten
my existence. My heart is hoard
ing the most enthusiastic gratitude
wherewith to repay her generosity ;
for a poet without an adored is like
a sky without stars.”
This conversation was, 1 felt,
very 7 dangerous for me, but I could
not tear myself away from him ;
and it was only when the party re
turned to the castle that we were
separated. His eyes followed me
during the whole of the evening,
and most of his speeches were ad
dressed to me, or filled with allus
ions applicable to our relative situa
tions. I was completely dazzled.
Arrived at my chamber I threw
myself into an arm-chair, covered
my face,and remained for two hours
I believe, unmoved in that position,
pas sing all the events of the day
before me. The most minute tri
fles had impressed themselves in
delibly on my memory ; every word
he had uttered stood in flaming let
ters before me, and, as may well be
supposed, completely deprived me
of sleep during the night. The
chambermaid who came to call me
in the morning, found me already
up and dressed for the journey.—
O, how full my heart was! 1 had
hardly entered my carriage when a
servaut brought me a letter; the
seal and handwriting were unknown
to me ; but the agitation that seized
me told me from whom it came. 1
opened it with a trembling hand,
impatient to be alone, that I might,
with my whole heart, enjoy the plea
sure of reading it. The contents
were in verse—verses full ol’ sorrow
and tenderness. I concealed them
in my bosom, resolved that no mor
tal eyes but my own should ever
gaze upon them. During the last
stage of the journey my ideal lover
again came to my recollection ; but
alas, how changed ! for when I look
ed for his image in my heart, I only
found the portraiture of Count Ar
thur I 1 ancy’s dream had become
reality, and airy nothing had now
assumed “ a local habitation and a
name.”
J rom tliis moment I only lived
for him. Surrounded by his wri
tings, I read them over and over
“gain, and entered into all his feel
ings. Jf anew work of his ap
peared, I was the first to secure it,
and devour its contents, which al
ways, I thought, contained allusions
to our mutual sentiments and unfor
tunate attachment. I fancied my
self depicted in all his heroines,
and believed that he was address
ing me in the speeches of all his lov
ers. If he spoke of the pangs of
separation, of the affliction of hope
less love, he was only, as I deemed,
speaking of me. 1 had only
changed the object of my folly, and
now loved so ardently that I could
not even hear his name mentioned
without changing color. Nothing
was more ludicrous than the abso
lute contempt with which I treated
all other gentleman who endeav
oured at times to pay me attention ;
a pitying smile was their only re
ward. I measured them by the fan
cied greatness of my new idol, and
alas, how little did they then appear!
Without even sending them, I wrote
I suppose, no fewer than five hun
dred letters to this lover of a single
day. I told him every thing, mv
joys and sorrows ; spoke, above alf,
of my love. My imagination grew
more and more extravagant respec
ting him, till I actually rhapso
dized.
Thus passed my youth ; and it
was worth being young for the pos
session of such feelings. Then
came the period of the desolating
Preach wars; our home was ren
dered insecure, and I removed with
my husoand to one of the capitals
oCnorthern Germany. It happened
to be the usual residence of Count
A nhur; but he was then absent on
some diplomatic mission. llis sif
ter, with whom I became acquain
ted, was a very commonplace, pro
saic person, but appeared an abso
lute Corinna in tny eyes, merely
because he was attached to her.
1 fancied, of course, that he must
have spoken to her about me, and
questioned her at least a thousand
times on the subject; and she thought
at last, that she recollected his ha
ving returned from the south of
Germany some years .before, with
an unfortunate attachment in his
heart. This was enough for me ;
all doubts were now removed, and
I should hardly have been more
delighted had a declaration of love
come even from his own lips.
But the wide-spreading ravages
of war again forced us to change
our quarters, and we removed to
Prague. I was no longer young,
and my fancy gradually began to
cool; but I still thought of Count
Arthur with the most affectionate
tenderness, and though I wrote no
more letters, still occupied myself
a great deal with him. I often
O
read the verses he had sent me, and
always with secret delight, for no
one had \*et been allowed to see
them ; they constituted the only link
between us, and formed, I may say,
the principal joys of my existence.
These continued dreams ended, at
last, by making me believe in the
full truth of the romance which im
agination had conceived. If his
name were mentioned I often re
pealed, almost involuntarily, “0, 1
am very well acquainted with Count
Arthur!” and these words were
generally accompanied by a pensive
and self-satisfied smile, which must
often have made the hearers believe
that I knew him but 100 well.
The restoration of peace enabled
me, after an absence of many years,
again to return to my home. My
husband had died during our exile ;
I was now a widow, without child
ren, in possession of considerable
property, and a good deal courted,
therefore, by my relations. The
cousin whom I formerly mentioned
did not forget me; but her kind
heart was above being influenced
by selfish motives. She resided for
a time with me, on one of my estates,
for her family had been obliged to
part with the castle where we had
met Count Arthur—a loss which
she deeply lamented. But chance
again brought the property into the
market; a moderate price only was
demanded, and as she was enabled
to raise the money, she instantly
repurchased the place, and returned
with delight to the scenes in which
she had passed her youth. I prom
ised her an early visit; but illness,
business, various occupations, de
layed me, and years passed away
before I could carry my resolution
into eflect. At last, about eight
days ago, I received the following
letter, —
“My dear Bertlia, —1 can no
longer let you off; and ymur pres
ence at my castle on or before the
18th of July, is now indispensibly
necessary. I shall accept no apol
ogy ; a heartfelt pleasure awaits
you, and I should never console
myself were you to decline my in
vitation.”
llovv could I resist such entrea
ties? Though sixty years of age,
I was still a woman with all a wo
man’s curiosity. On the 18th of
July, therefore, I arrived at the
castle, and no sooner entered the
drawing-room than my cousin, rush
ing into my arms, exclaimed, with
all her usual spirit and vivacity,—
“Now, tell me quickly, which of
all your former acquaintances are
you most anxious to meet again ?
Speak frankly and sincerely.”
I named a few at random.
“ Not so, not so,” she replied ; “a
stiil older acquaintance, one first
met here in this very castle, and
whom your heart continues to ac
knowledge.”
I was so weak as still to blush.
“ That’s it,” said my cousin ;
“now you are right. It is Count
Arthur, I expect him here every
minute. The charming Arthur!
I wonder what has become of his
elegant figure and brown curling
locks! ” °
“ Lven, I suppose, what has be
come of our beauty, which has
turned to wrinkles and ugliness.”
I said this on purpose to prevent
her from saying so, but tlid not
wish to believe my own words. Mv
heai t could not harbor the possibility
of finding Count Arthur, changed
from what I had seen him some
forty years before.
We spoke of past times, of the
vciy day on which we had formerly
expected him, even as we did now.
But what a difference! Then in
youth, mid now hi age ! At this
moment the sound of wheels was
heard, and the Count’s chariot drew
up. I hastened into the embrasure
of a window, to see him alight; the
carriage-door opened, and 1 actually
shrunk back in terror when I beheld
him. Was this Count Arthur? —a
decrepit! old man, whose tall figure
was almost bent together, whose
face was full of wrinkles, and want
ed every particle of that dignity
which often accompanies age! This,
with a few grey hairs scattered
round an almost bald head, was all
that now remained of the once gay
and gallant count!
My cousin received him in the
most friendly manner, —
“Welcome, my dear count!”
she said ; “ here is a lady who will
be delighted to see 3*oll again.”
After I had recovered a
little, I approached.
“Do you not know her ? It is my
cousin, the Baroness Nierking,
whom, on your former visit, you
found so amiable and interesting.”
“O, 3 r es, certainly, certainly !”
was his embarrassed reply 7 , as he
bowed to me.
I perceived at once that he had
entirely forgotten me. It was a
pang that struck my heart keenly,
and as my cousin probably perceiv
ed it, she drew him aside, and
mentioned our former meeting to
him. He listened attentively, and
seemed to call bis best powers of
memory into exertion.
“I cannot recollect,” lie said. “1
know that you had a party of ladies
here —some very charming ones,
no doubt; but, except yourself I re
member no one in particular.”
Two large tear-drops fell from
my eyes. It was the whole of my
past life that J morned, for with a
single word this cruel man had now
robbed me of the whole of my pre
vious existence. What now remain
ed to me, and where was compen
sation to be found for the past ? In
a few years ofsaftering, and then in
death !
The count took a seat near me,
and I recollected myself so far as to
address some words of courtesy to
him. He hardly answered, till I
turned the conversation exclusively
on himself; then only he seemed to
revive, and was evidently pleased
when a circle formed round him.
But a young lady having been led
to the piano, he again grew moody ;
for ho was no longer the sole object
of attention, and this he evidently
looked upon as a sort of insult.
1 remained near him, and as he
found me a good listener he endeav
oured to resume the thread of the
conversation, in which, as it was
my wish also, he easily succeeded.
I spoke of the journey which led to
his former visit at the castle, and he
assured me that it had afforded him
great pleasure.
“And yet you no longer recollect
our walk in the garden, nor my
singing?” I had almost added, —
“Your love,” when reflection saved
me from the foil}'.
“Oh, perfectly, my lady!” was
his reply; but I easily perceived
that it was a mere piece of common
place gallantry.
“But, permit me, my lady,” he
continued : “did I not give you some
verses on that occasion, some pretty,
soft, sighing, lyrical effusion ? I am
sure I must have done so, for, dur
ing my tour in this part of the coun
try, I hardly met with a pretty wo
man to whom I did not show such a
mark of attention. Ladies like
these things, and if you sing to
them, you sing yourself into their
hearts ; they love to become immor
tal with poets. If you have any
such verses, pray give them to me,
fori retain no copy, though I know
that I wrote some very good things
at that time. lam printing anew
edition of my works, will you not
accept a place in it ?”
I was no longer able to retain my
calmness ; my recollection turned
to bitterness, and I could not resist
the satsfaetion of vexing an old fop,
for whom I had shed so many tears,
and who now told me that"l had
shared the little attention lie had
paid me with every pretty woman
in the country ! I had inspiredhirn
with nothing more than the slight,
transient satisfaction he experienced
in the company of thousands of oth
ers ! And now he wished to have
my secret treasure restored to ex
pose that to the gaze of the public
which 1 had concealed even from
the eyes of friendship,—l who had
so wished that only his eyes had
rested on those glowing lines ! No.
never!
“I am truly grieved, my lord
count, I replied, “that I no longer
possess your valuable autograph.
If I rightly recollect, it was a long
poem which you did me the honor
to dedicate to me, — an elegy, I be
bevc or something of that kind.
„ 1 xv “ eu 1 ceased to be young,
all such matters found their way
into lhe fire ; and 1 fear that your
homage must have fed the flames
along with the rest.”
This told, and ray vengeance was
complete. His vanity was so deep
ly hurt that ho sprang quickly from
his seat, and haughtily uttering the
words, “Great pity !” left me to en
joy the satisfaction of having so
skilfully winged the dart.
What further passed I shall not
relate. Why, indeed, should 1'?
Here I am now sitting in the very
same place where I first thought of
him, and I may say, loved him.
My childish letters, his verses, his
portrait, I have consigned to the
flames. 1 am now nothing more
than an old woman, whose reason
was never before sufficiently on its
guard, but who has now received
a shock which has brought her to
herself, and who can, fortunately,
still look back upon the past with
out shame, though not without re
gret for folly. However severe has
been the blow which has cured me
of my errors, I am yet bound to
bear it with gratitude ; for it has
enabled me, after hours of reflec
tion, tQ tear off the veil that for
years had covered my eyes. But
on what am I now to rest them ?
1 had olten resolved never to
join what is termed the saintly sis
terhood, and did not know that a call
to that effect might yet be awaken
ed in my solitary and forsaken
heart. May Heaven forgive me !
I now know and feel that there
is nothing true but God, and to Him
my last days shall be dedicated.
Oh, that 1 had sooner thought so !
How much error and repentance
should I have spared myself, and
how much of hope should I have
gai ned.— Fraser's Magazine.
o o
GETTING U3ED TO IT.
Somewhere about here—writes a
Southern correspondent—lived a
small fanner of such social habits
that his comming home intoxicated
was no unusual thing. His wife
urged him iri vain to sign the
pledge. “Why you see,” he would
say, “I’ll sign it after a while, but
I don’t like to break right off at once ;
it aint wholesome. The best way’
always is to get used to a thing by
degrees, you know.” “Very well,
old man,” bis helpmate would re
join, “sec now if you don’t fall into
a hole some of these days, when
you can’t take care of yourself, and
no one near you to help you out.”
Sure enough, as if to verify, the
prophecy, a couple of days after, he
tumbled into the well. Here the
old toper, after a deal of useless
scrambling, shouted for “the light
of his eyes” to come and help him
out. “Didn’t I tell you so?” said
the good soul, showing her cap
frill over the edge of the parapet;
“you’ve got into a hole at last, and
it’s only lucky I’m in hearing, or
you might have drowned, you old
dog}'ou ?” “Well,” she continued
after a pause, letting down the
bucket, “take hold.” And up he
came, higher at each turn of the
windlass, untill —the old lady’s
grasp slipping from the handle,
down he went to the bottom again !
This occuring more than once,
O 1
made ;the temporary occupant of
the well suspicious. “Look here,”
screamed he in a fury at the last
splash, “you’re doing that on pur
pose —I know you are !” “Well,
now, I am,” responded the “old
’oman “tranquilly, while winding
him up once more. Don’t you re
member telling me it’s best to get
used to a thing by degrees? I’m
’fraidifl was to bring you right
up on a sudden you wouldn’t find
it. wholesome !” The old fellow
could not help chuckling at the .ap
plication of his principle, and he
protested he would sign the pledge
on the instant, if she would fairly
lift him out. This she did, and
packed him off to swear in,” wet
as he was. “For you see,” she
added very emphatically, “if you
ever fall into the well again, I’ll
leave you there—l will I”—Knicker
bocker.
A dandy with a cigar in his
mouth, on hoard a steamboat, once
stepped up to a stranger and said :
“JPray, sir, do gentlemen smoke
in your country ?”
‘•Gentlemen don’t smoke in any
country,’ was the loconic answer.
Very Black. — The Cincinnati
Dispatch speaks of a negro so dark
that a candle will go out forty feet
from his face.
The following appears in the
Limerick Chronicle: “Mungret
churchyard is in a most disgraceful
state. Four dogs were killed while
devouring dead bodies in the
graves. The booty of ‘a pensioner
who hanged himself last month was j
torn a wav.”
•/
A man named [low swam across
the Ohio River at Sportsman’s
Hall in nine minute's and a halt. A i
man rowing a skiffi attempted to
beat him, bat without success.
A woman in England has been
convicted and sentenced to be hung
for poisoning her mistress, in hopes
that the famiiy would give her a
a mourning dress.
The emigrant women run with
O 4
the fire-engines in Cincinnati, like
men and are just as enthusiastic.
In Sacramento C i ty r is a sign
bearing the following inscription :
“Rest for the weary, and storage for
trunks ? 1
FRIEND OF THE FAMILY.
E. J. PURSE, CITY PRINTER.
Proceedings of Council
SAVANNAH, 26th Sept., 1850.
Council met.
Present His Honor R. Wayne, Mayor; Aider
men Fosiy, Turner, Lippman, Mallerv, Cohen,
Saussy, \\alker, and Purse.
The Minutes of the last Meeting w-ere read and
confirmed.
1 lie Information and Fine Dockets were read
and confirmed.
The Mayor and Aldermen, See., vs. Allen, Ball
Co.— l* i. Fu. to collect Taxes upon Income, &c.—
Affidavit of Illegality, &c.
John E. Ward, Esq., of the counsel for the de”
fend ants, appeared arid filed the exceptions for
certiorari, which, on motion of Alderman Cohen,
were overrule and.
Reports.
Alderman Turner, chaiiman of the Committee
on Accounts, made a verbal report, recommending
that the Bills of the Savannah Georgian, Savannah
Republican, and Daily Morning News, for adverti
sing, be paid.
James M . De Lyon, City Surveyor, submitted a
Report relative to the Western boundary of the
City ol Savannah, which was read, and on motion
of Aid. Posey was referred to a Special Commit
tee ol three. Ilis Honor the Mayor appointed as
such Committee Aid. Posey. Walker and Cohen.
Ordinance.
An Ordinance to amend an Ordinance, entitled
! <‘An Ordinance for regulating the Public Market
: City of Savannah, passed July 22d, 1839,'’
was read the first time.
Petition.
Ihe Petition of Lot holders and residents of
Curry Town, recommending the removal of an
i obstruction on Lot No. 24, corner of Montgomery
and Charlton Streets, which encroaches from 10 to
i 20 feet in Montgomery Street, was read, and on
motion referred to the Committee on Streets and
! Lanes.
Resolutions read and adopted.
! By Alderman Turner.
! II licveas it lias pleased the Supreme Being to
remove from our midst Aid. Domonick O’Byrnc,
Resolved, r l hut as a token of our respect for the
memory of the deceased, the members of this Board
wear crape on the left arm for thirty days.
Resolved, That a copy of these Resolutions he
presented to his family, with assurance of the
i sympathy of the members of this Board, under
their afllicting bereavement.
. By Aid. Mallerv, seconded by Aid. Turner,
Resolved, ihut the City Treasurer pav Adam
Short 1 our Hundred Dollars, on account of the
j contract for building Cisterns in Crawford Ward
and in West Broad and Liberty Streets, provided
that the said payment be not considered us an ac
ceptance ol tiic work done.
Resolution read and laid on the Table.
By A Id. Cohen,
Resowed, 1 hat the sum of Three Hundred Do!-
lai-s be appropriated for the purpose of employing ;
an Aguit to \isitthc Northern Cities, to examine I
and i eport on Murks lor introducing water in
those Cities, and to obtain general information as
to the expense, and the best mode of effecting this
object.
Miscellaneous.
Read a Communication from the Board of Health
relative to the condition t:f a house, corner Bryan
and Habersham Streets, requesting Council to have
the weeds cut down and removed from the common
and about the canal, which on motion was received.
Amount of Accounts passed $836,59.
Council adjourned.
EDWARD G. WILSON, Clerk of Council.
Board of Health.
Scxlqiis Report of Interment .l for the ireck ending
September 24, 1850.
Wineford Conway, 1 month, Spasms ; Savan
nah, Resident.
‘Mohn Bourk, 39 years, Inflamation Bowels;
Pennsylvania, Resident.
Mary Miller, 32 years, Consumption ; Georgia,
Non-Resident.
Ellen McGloin, 21 years, Convulsions; Ireland,
Non-Resident.
Frances A Jones, 28 years, Inflamation Bow
els; Savannah, Resident.
Elizabeth Keebler, 38 years, Inflamation Stom
ach ; Savannah, Resident.
M rn. Spellman, years, Consumption; Savan
nah, Resident.
tl etcr I ortune, 36 years, ; Ireland Non-
Resident.
Dominick O’Byrne, 57 years, Consumption;
Ireland, Resident.
John Blake, 65 years, Conjestive Fever; Ire
land, Non-Resident.
tJames Rowan, 40 years, Sudden Death; Ire
land, Non-Resident.
Ann Foster, 56 years, Abdominal Abscess;
Ireland, Resident, Total 12.
*Died at the Poor House and Hospital.
tTaken to the Hospital in a dying state.
+ Died at the Guard House.
BLACK AND COLORED.
Infant, 8 days, lufantiue; Dayton, 40 years,
Manslaughter; Ned, 35 years, Congestion Bowels;
Amy, 40 years, Consumption ; Joseph, 4 months,
Fever; Infant, 3 days, Infantine. Total 6.
B. Lathrop, Sexton.
E. J. HARDEN, Chairman Pro. Tern., B. 11.
S. A. T. Lawrence, Sec.
A woman without poetry i* uj.
without sunshine. Wo see every object"!'*? B
tinctly as when the sunshine i up otl j ° s <i, <-
beauty of tbe whole is wanting
tints tbe harmony of earth and sky wt' 1 ] ” r, '‘ er;:
vain ; and we feel that though the for J
of hill and dale, of wood and water
the spirituality of die scene is gone.’
A woman without poetry ! The ] deil •
dux; for what single object has ev er
so fraught with poetical associations a .
self? “ Woman, with her beauty V manlllr
gentleness, and fullness of feeling e ’ ar ?
affection, and her blushes of purity UlJ( j
and looks which only a mother’s ho ton -J
Mrs. Ellis. ‘ attcan inspire]
Nothing in life is so terrible o s the ro •
an extraordinary self-sacrifice. The af H
always feels as if it had done whit *•’ a!m H
need less, and might have been evaded V ° aiu *l
friends, falsely so named in such ca<o - .jj’ ° j
pain, by agreeing with us, anildeckm!*
sacrifice was little removed from full j
doing all they can to support and stren I
hie and sinking spirit, by upholding ;“ 3
and affirming their conviction that thel
was as imperatively demanded as |
There are so few, unhappily in the p ros en |
state of things, who can thus abnegate XT’
they imagine all who can and do ml- I
• c .... UUe under the 1
Hilluencc ot romantic delusion —q „ I
• , . . . . r 3 ? I )ecie of eij.j
tmisiasm, which is inflict to such ,„i m U but
other word for madness.— Grace Aquill. ” “
At the present day, the most prevalent f unr j
insanity is the love of money f or j ts OVVn .
Other forms still prevail throughout the
none appears to exert so pervading an
or needs to be so often checked. The sun,,;
of gain may be good or bad, according to
lives, objects and practical life of the accumulaj
Good men of all ages have been men who nii4t ’
with propriety, be said to have earned and Z.'.
times received much money; but in their r-i
was never loved for its own sake, or used in a .
ish manner. One of the precepts of the indj
, ous Wesley was, earn all you can, get all you ca
and give all you can. A distinguishing character’
istic of those who are insane in their avarice
that they are not satisfied with the amount of nil
they may at any time become possessed, even i
the sum should be ten times greater than, i n tf*
early part of their career, they had even expected
or hoped to realize. The reason why this is
general a trait, is that the uses to which money
may most properly be devoted, are at first deferred,
then avoided, and eventually lost sight of entirelv
The process by which this acts upon the mind is
at first slow and insiduous, like many otherfornu
of derangement; but like them it is almost rM
in its effects , so that it is often more
cult for one who is worth thousands, to dispense al
few superfluous hundreds, in public donationsorß
private charity, than for one of moderate mean! ijl
bestow a generous proportion of what lie h;e,ii[ J
similar worthy objects.— Anon.
At seventeen a girl’s character is seldom fir
formed. It is the first opening of life; it* first
susceptibility of enjoyment; its first consciotunw
ol power, of feelings of perfect happiness, unalloyol
even by those whisperings of our innate corrupt, i
to- which we only awake by degrees. All thirp
seem as bright, as fond, as innocent, as ouron
minds : love! love breathes around us in mtareii
in man : we see nothing of the universal curse, j i
all of the universal Jove ! We may hear of sin anJ
suffering, but they arc things afar off, and of 1&
moment. Some deem childhood the happiest set
son of life ; but oh ! surely it is youth.
Childhood is but a dre jm, containing, indtrl
the germ of after being, not the flowers themself
It is the threshold of Spring, hut not Spring it-
No ! Spring, like youth, comes in the suddens >
of sunshine—kindles with rnagic touch these
less seed into the fragrant flower —converts
laughter of the moment into the deeper smiled ‘
heart—the weary toil of task and restraint into!*
springy freedom, the buoyant hope, the bright- *
fading glory oflife—awakened, beautiful cxistae|
But even as it is the season of guiltlessness, i
joy, of good that thinketh no evil, suit isofimpi-j
sion. The heart and mind, like wax. arc mould
to whatever form the hand of affection points; 3 -
happy is it for those whose first Tiiendshins, “'M
early associations are with those capable of impH
sing their nothing but the good.— Grace of
The infant rocked in its mother’s arms,is at !r-
a mere recipient of impressions. It is wnfchc
over with the tenderest care by “angels whoperpt
ualJy behold the face of their Heavenly lathe.
and guarded as far as possible from all evil ml
ences. Its ignorance is such that it cannot choo
between good and evil, but receives whatever ,
given it almost as it were by simple mechanics
tion. It possesses innocence—the innocence I
norance; but this innocence is involuntary. * I
a simple form of good affections, for the world
° a I
not yet developed its evil capacities,
holy and gentle influences consp'Ve lo a "’ a ’' e
emotions in its soul. And this little beir?
type of what we must become if we would
the Kingdom of Heaven. Knowingly aIH ‘ I
tarily must we arrive at a state ot innoc’
lar to that in which we at first existed, ’S“ I
and involuntarily.— Anon.
If there is no calculations to be made o ■
arising from a want of knowledge, as I
estimate the amount of good, of wnicn ■
lays tiie foundation. Perhaps one of 1
recommendations to a woman, is the !
has to diffuse a calm over the ruffled ‘ j) B
supply subjects of interesting reflection, 11 ■
cumstanccs the least favorable to the a f( l u
new ideas.
Such is the position in society wbh* 1 I
mablc women are called to fill, th at
have stored their mlno's with gencia
during the season pf youth, they n *’ v I
opportunity of doing so again- I
then, is such a store, to draw upon
when the hand throughout the da)’ 19 ,
° u <1 isl
ployed, and sometimes when the n' a ‘ M
ry! It is then that knowledge not ‘j B
labor, but often, when the task i s
social friends are met together, it C ° IIK
bidden, in those glimpses of illunii atll
“’ell informed, intelligent woman, i I
out of the humblest material, k l 9 “',,
out tne slightest attempt at cli-P 1 ' I'’ 1 '’ ‘